Sherlock Holmes and the Mystery of the Coded Letters
by JamieKeshini
Summary: Grace Irena Claxton's father has been murdered, and valuable things stolen. Her father's wartime friend, Dr. Watson, knows someone that can help her. But will they find the killer and the items before the killer finds Grace? Rated T just to be safe. Sherlock Homes/OC
1. Introductions

_**Hello all my new readers! It's a pleasure and an honor to have all of you reading my work! First of all my real last name is Sibert, and Claxton is just my pen name. **_

_**This started as a little drabble to pass my english for first quarter, but I ended up falling in love with this and actually making a story out of it. I**_**_t's set in the Guy Richie Sherlock Holmes movie world, (Robert Downey Jr. *fangirlsquee*) and I tried to write it as best I could in the classic Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Style, with my own twist. Please let me know what you think and how this can be improved! Comments are much appreciated!_**

**_Without further ado, here it is._**

My name is Grace. Grace Irena Claxton. But last names are unimportant. This is the story of why I avenged the death of my father, and how I got there.

It was a chilly November morning when i set out from my warm home in London to find my father's friend. Dr. Watson and my father had met back in the war, as they had served together. Dr. Watson being, well, a doctor, and my father being head of communications for his troop. But this was not a time for a lighthearted visit. I had come on the most buisness-like of pretenses. My father had been murdered only two days before, and Scotland Yard had been unable to find anything. Not even when I had explained to them that both the deed to the house and my father's bank book had been taken.

The whole situation still perplexed me. But that was why I was making this journey. Watson had many tales of a friend of his and their adventures in solving crimes. Some seemingly impossible cases had been resolved. And impossible is what i was currently faced with.

When I arrived at Dr. Watson's home, I was invited in by his wife, Mary. After compliments to my dark blue dress, she led me into the Doctor's study. He sat behind a rather ornate oak desk, looking over several hand-written notes, and periodically typing a line or so. He was so absorved with his writing that Mary had to come up beside him to get his attention.

"John, dear, we have a guest." she said, finally capturing the Doctor's attention. "Oh, I am sorry." he said, rising from his seat, "Please, sit. How are you holding up Miss Claxton?" "I'm quite alright, thank you Doctor." I said, adjusting my rather uncomfortable skirts. "But I haven't come here to discuss my feelings and health. I've come here because I need the assistance of your friend, Mr. Holmes."

At these words, a startled Dr. Watson almost leapt from his seat. "Holmes?! Whatever would you require from him?" "Things have not been improoved by the Yard." I answered, "My father's bank book and the deed to our estate are still missing, amoung other things."

"What might these 'other things' be?" John inquired, raising an eyebrow. "I would much rather discuss this only once, and for Mr. Holmes to hear, thank you." I replied, only to recieve a dubious look from John. "Very well." he said, "If you will but give me a moment to put on my coat and hat, we will leave shortly."

I rose and waited for John at the door, trying to remain patient as best I could. I had heard so much about this man. About how he could pull deductions from seemingly insignificant, trifling details. How he had guessed Mary's story just by looking at her. This was sure to be most exhiting.

Watson came not too much later, and called us a cab to take us to Holmes' Baker Street apartment. It took us longer to arrive than I had first expected, and with every passing bump i grew more and more exhited and tense.

When our cab rolled to a stop in front of 221b Baker Street, I could hardly wait for Watson to open the cab door. I was so close to the one man that I was sure could solve this mystery. Watson led me up a short flight of stone steps, and knocked on the wooden door with his staff.

As we awaited a reply, I glanced over for a closer look at his staff. A dark, polished wood made up the body, with a head that bore the seal of the military branch Watson had belonged to. Underneath the seemingly harmless exterior, I knew lay a lethal blade that slid out of the staff with ease.

A muffled yell came from behind the door, and a moment later an older woman with a messily braided head of hair answered the door. "Oh, Dr. Watson! How good of you to come!" the lady said, "Please, come in." "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." John answered, stepping in and removing his hat. "I assume your renter is in?" "Oh yes. Up in his room like he always is in-between cases." Mrs. Hudson replied, taking our coats. "You're going to have to fetch him."

"That shan't be a problem." Watson answered. "If you would please escort Miss Claxton to the parlor, and if you would put some tea on that would be splendid." "Of course, Doctor." Mrs. Hudson replied with a smile. Turning to me, she said, "Come on then, love. Let me see you to the parlor, and then I'll put that tea on."

She led me into a nicely furnished room, and I sat in a velvet-lined chair as she left the room. It was silent for a moment, save for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, but suddenly I heard a noise from upstairs. I was curious to what it was, but I restrained myself and remained in my seat.

Moments later I could hear two sets of footsteps coming down the stairs. One seemed to be shambling along rather reluctantly whilst the other was smooth and even. The latter had to have been Watson. I could not imagine any military man walking in any haphazard or shabby manner.

Through the parlor entrance came Watson, followed by a rather sloppily dressed man with disheveled dark brown hair. If this was Holmes, he wasn't making the best first impression. As Watson sat, he whispered to this man. It was, indeed, Holmes. I was about to write off this entire endeavor until Holmes looked up at me. His eyes shone with the all of the intelligence that Watson had told me about. He almost immediately began looking me up and down, and we had barely just met each other.

This was going to be quite an interesting endeavor.


	2. Assumptions

"Holmes, may i introduce Miss Grace Claxton." Watson began, "Miss Claxton, this is Sherlock Holmes." "It's quite a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes." I said, reaching out to shake his hand, but retracting my hand when he did not return the gesture. "I assume that the Doctor has already told you the purpose of my visit." "He has told me that you may have a rather intriugeing case for me, but nothing more." Holmes said steadily. I took a deep breath, and told Holmes of the Yard's failed attempts to regain my father's things and inability to capture the killer.

"And these are all the details you know of?" Holmes said, "Or is it as i believe, and you hide more from me? I must know all of the known facts before i can make any real progress." I paused, should I reveal what had just recently happened, triggering my search for aid? Or should I lie or distract him? I had a feeling he could see through any lies i came up with.

"Oh I have heard of your eye for detail, Mr. Holmes." I said, going for distraction. "What can you tell me about me, other than what I have just finished telling you?" I quiried.

"Well," Holmes began, "I know just by your last name that you come from a military family. The Claxtons have been quite a brave bunch. Your posture tells that you have been to more galas and balls than you care to count. You came here in a very elegant dress, presumably to impress. But the tan lines along your neck and arms show that you usually wear clothing more suited for a man, and that you are out of doors quite a bit.

"Your hands are dryer than most noblewomen's, leading me to believe that you are used to a bit of manual labour. The wear on the riding boots you wore today tell that you do not ride sidesaddle as most women, but astride like a man. The scant makeup on your face leads me to believe the heavy makeup along your jawline and on your neck is hiding scars. From the clotting of the makeup along the scars, they are very fresh and recent cuts. Which leads me to my question to you. Who attacked you, and when did they do it? Those scars are in such places that they would not come by any accident."

For a moment, I sat there, astonished and unable to speak. I had heard of his deductive abilities, but to this extent I had previously doubted his skills. No more. There was no hiding anything from this man. Gathering myself and my scattered emotions, I told the Doctor and Holmes what had transpired the night before, with all of the details that Holmes had desired earlier.

"As you well know, my father was murdered only two days ago, the murderer taking my father's bank book and the deed to our estate. Scotland Yard has tried and failed to gain any ground with this case. Even when I had told them the possible reason for the murderer to take the deed and the bank book." I said, but was interupted by Holmes. All of this interupting was getting irritating. But he so facinated me...

"What reason might that be?" Holmes asked, leaning forwards in his seat, fingers pressed together under his chin. "My father, being the head of communications in his military unit, was always facinated by codes and puzzles. He's always hinted at some fortune that he hid on the property before the war."

I paused. Sherlock's thoughtful expression had not changed, so I took that as my cue to continue. "He said there were three clues to this hidden fortune. The first was 'money', the second was 'property', and the third, well that was the most confusing one out of the lot of them." I said, remembering my father's third and final clue.

"Pray tell what the third clue is." Watson said, Holmes' expression still unwavering. "He would always say that the third and final clue never leaves my sight. But I just don't see how that's possible." I said, still puzzled as ever.

"Intriuging indeed." Holmes said, speaking for the first time in a long while. "Aside from family, was there any other individuals whom your father may have told these clues to? Or possibly what they meant?" "I can think of only one." I said as Holmes leaned back into his chair, running a hand through his dark brown hair. "And?" he said, awaiting my answer. "I can only think of his war-time friend Officer Francis Maloney. He was my father's closest friend aside from the Doctor, and they talked frequently about such things, especially recently."

"Very interesting." Holmes said, standing and beginning to pace the room. "Based on the information you have given me, and my knowledge of Watson's fellow militarymen, I may have a start. But this still does not explain your unnatural scars, and why you hid them." He did have me there. I sighed.

"Last night, just before I was going to bed, a strange man broke into the library, and attempted to kidnap me. Using what i know of self-defense, I resisted enough to ward him off. But he escaped, and I now have scars from the knife he used to try to get me to follow him." "But why hide them?" Watson asked, and Holmes simply rolled his eyes at his partner.

"The lady doesn't want to appear weak, old boy. It's quite obvious that she wants in on the more, how should I say, 'dangerous' part of this case." Sherlock said increduliously, a slight smirk on his face as he turned to me for confirmation. I sighed. "Does nothing escape you, Holmes?" I half-heartedly laughed, assuring myself that Holmes would surely deny me the privilage of coming along.

Holmes definately didn't seem to like the idea of me coming along. He paced the floor more, mumbling to himself. After a while, Holmes piped up yet again. "Very well. You got yourself into this. Watson, would you accompany Miss Claxton to her home. As for you, miss, if you would please change into something more... suited to exersise. I shall go research a lead that I think I may have. Both of you arrive back here at half past one, and I shall meet you with further plans." Holmes grabbed a coat and hat as he walked towards the door. "At half-past one, then?" he called, and then left.

The great Sherlock Holmes had another case. 


	3. A First Shot

The cab ride back to my estate seemed to drag on forever. I was actually going to take on a case with Sherlock Holmes! I could barely believe it. I already felt immensely more confident in the chances of solving the case. Holmes was such a brilliant man, I doubted that anyone could outsmart him.

My thoughts of Holmes were interrupted by the cab finally arriving at my estate. Watson assisted me in exiting the cab, and I led him into my home. He waited in the parlor while I climbed upstairs to my bedroom.

Once inside my room, I hastily set about removing my dress. When I had taken it off, I felt as if I were floating for how heavy it had been on me. I put on my white shirt, and black pants with my braces, and a grey vest on the top. Lacing my tall black riding boots took the longest time, and when I had finished that, I went to my vanity.

Cleaning the makeup off of my scars with the water from the pitcher, one of them began bleeding again. Pulling out the pins that held my hair up, I shook my hair free, running through it with my comb a few times. I wiped clean the slight blood dribble from my neck, and walked back downstairs.

Watson stood in the parlor where I had left him, gazing at an old military map of my father's. I grabbed my coat off the back of a chair. The coat had once been my father's, dark blue with cold-colored embellishments, the cuffs still stiff from starching. After some alterations, the coat's form now flattered my figure. I discreetly took my deringer pistol from a shelf and tucked into my coat pocket.

"Are we ready to set out for your home, Doctor?" I asked, walking towards the man, "I would imagine that Mary would like to know what you will be doing this afternoon."

"Ah, yes." Watson said, a little frazzled, as I had apparently roused him from some memory. "If you're ready, Miss Claxton, let us depart."

Ever the gentleman, Watson opened both my front door and the cab door for me.

"Pardon me," Watson said as we travelled to his home, "but I do not think I have ever noticed how long and wavy your hair is, Miss."

"Thank you." I replied, "But I only think that is because I have always had it pinned up for some reason when you have seen me. And please, just call me Grace. You've known me far more than long enough."

"Alright then, Grace." Watson said, smiling. "But do forgive me if I slip, old habits do not die easily."

As we arrived at Watson's home, Mary stood waiting at the door. "Where are you going this time, John?" Mary said, a slight smile on her face. "Come inside, I have lunch ready to eat."

As we sat down and ate the lovely meal, Watson relaid to Mary what we would be doing later that day. She seemed a bit concerned, but did not say anything to hinder us. We finished our meal, and soon it was time for us to depart to Holmes' apartment.

We said our goodbyes to Mary, and then called another cab to carry us. This ride seemed to take no time at all, as we passed several signature bumps in the road leading to Holmes' home.

When we arrived, we were met with Holmes himself running up the steps and in the door just as I stepped out from the cab. "Well it would appear we have arrived on time." Dr. Watson sighed, shaking his head with a slight grin.

We walked right in, Watson explaining that Holmes would come down from his room as soon as he was ready. Things like this must have happened in the past, I guessed.

Holmes came down a moment later, wiping something from his face with a rag. "Watson, Miss Claxton." Holmes said as he entered the room. He paused for a moment when he saw me, and for a moment I feared that I was not dressed appropriately. But he shook his head slightly and continued, "It is as I had suspected. Officer Maloney is behind at the very least the theft, if not the murder itself. I traced him to his apartments, where he will be meeting with his accomplices in only an hour."

"Accomplices?" Watson said, "So he isn't working alone?"

"Indeed not, Watson." Holmes said, "For if he is behind the murder as I suspect, as well as the attack on Miss Claxton," here he nodded to me with an unreadable expression crossing his face, "it's only logical that he hire someone to do the dirty work. That way if there were to be an eyewitness, no one could connect him to the crime."

"But if we cannot proove this," I said with a hint of frustration in my tone, "There is no possible way that Scotland Yard will even consider taking a militaryman into custody. You must know that , Holmes."

"That is why we will leave now to aquire that proof, Miss Claxton." Holmes countered, picking up a coat from the back of a chair, "Your current attire is far more appropriate, and I do thank you."

I was taken aback a bit by this comment, but shook it off as best I could. Why little comments like that from him unsettled me so, I didn't know. Another strange thing was that it felt uncomfortable to me for Holmes to call me by my last name. My head swam with many such questions as the three of us rose and set out for the meeting place of our suspect, Officer Maloney.

We rode in a cab for a time, exiting the cab about two or three blocks away from our destination and walking the rest of the way there. The walk was rather uncomfortable for me. Holmes would periodically turn and look me up and down, an undeterminable expression crossing his features. I couldn't tell if he was planning on jumping another assessment on me, if he wanted to send me home, if there was something wrong with my outfit, or if he knew that I was constantly looking at him. It was unsettling and I wasn't sure what to do about it, so I kept quiet and continued on.

As for me looking at Sherlock, I was continuously facinated with everything from his mis-matched clothing to his disheveled dark brown hair. The way he walked and talked, or rather murmered, to Watson every so often. I caught myself wishing that it was I he was murmuring to. If I were someone else, I would call it infatuation. But I had just met this man today, and though I had heard quite a bit about him, didn't have any personal experience with him. So it couldn't be infatuation... Could it? 


	4. A Failure to Observe

As we neared our destination, Holmes turned and directed us down an alleyway. Gesturing for us to be quiet, Sherlock pointed at a window whose curtains showed light and shadowy figures behind them.

We all crouched below the window, ears placed firmly against the wall, straining to hear what was being talked about. As I started listening, I could hear my father's old friend speak.

"-go and get her, snatch her from the house in the dead of night. If this third clue never leaves her sight, she's got it on her somewhere all of the time." I gulped. Maloney knew more than I had hoped.

"What if she won't talk?" another voice said, "What if she don't know what the clue is?"

"Oh, she does." Maloney said, "If she refuses to tell us, well, let's just say I'll have found a good use for that meat freezer in my butchery, eh?"

Three voices chuckled, and as they enjoyed themselves, I could feel the color drain from my face. So this was it. I didn't have a way out. I felt a reassuring hand on my shoulder, and glanced over to see Sherlock. His warm brown eyes seemed to say that I was safe. But I had a hard time believeing him.

"And what about this code we have? What's the good without the key?" A third voice said.

"The code is a simple replacement code." Maloney said, his tone showing frustration. "What we have are two sets of instructions penciled in code on the deed and printed on his bank book. They key is on the girl somewhere, and we have to find it. That's why we're splitting up to get her. Powell?"

The question confused me for a moment, but a moment later it sent my heart crashing to the ground. Powell had walked away from the meet, and not having observed the footsteps, I hadn't found out that Powell was walking towards the window.

He drew the curtain back, and hollered, "Oi! It's that girl! And that detective fellow from earlier! They just got 'ere and they're trying to break in!"

Even among the scramble to escape as the men leapt out of the window and gave chase, a small part of me was relieved that they didn't know that we had been there to hear their plans.

Maloney stayed in the building, but the other two were more than enough to keep us busy. They chased us up and down the London streets, never gaining any ground on us, but never loosing any ground either.

A gunshot sounded in the air, and a window near me shattered. Watson, Holmes, and I all dove for cover, and my hand went to the Deringer in my coat pocket. I heard Watson fire off a shot from his pistol, and the men chasing us hid, advancing carefully. This was going to be hand-to-hand combat bery quickly. I only had one bullet to use, so I held my fire, in wait of the perfect opprotunity.

One of the men attacked Sherlock, who was the closest, and Watson drew his bladestaff and began to help his friend. The other man, Powell, advanced towards me. When he was close enough, I pulled the trigger of my pistol. But it misfired, and did no harm. I was taken by surprise, and was engaged before I really knew what to do. I warded him off for a small while, but there was no way I was going to win this fight.

For a moment, I allowed myself to be distracted, and looked over to Holmes, who was doing a splendid job. Powell took my lapse of attention to his advantage and grasped me by the neck and lifted me from the ground, raising me to his heighth of at least six feet.

"Where is the key?" he growled at me. "If you tell me now, I won't kill you. I may even let you go." He chuckled, a manic smile on his face. "If it never leaves your sight, you have to have it right now." I tried to resist and fight back, but I couldn't, and screamed a little, hoping that Watson was free.

Powell tightened his grip on my neck, constricting my throat. "None of that." he said, "now, what is the key?" Just as I thought that I would die right there, I saw a stick crack Powell on the skull, dazing him and causing him to drop me. As I fell, I cracked my head on the ground, and I could feel blood start to to trickle from my forehead.

I saw a blurry image of Sherlock fighting Powell, using Watson's cane. I tried to stand, but stumbled around as I tried to walk, disoriented from my fall. I watched as Powell fell down, and Sherlock ran over, grabbing me by the arm and running with me away from the unconcious men. I was regaining my vision and equallibrium, and then ran faster by myself. We ran all the way back to Sherlock's apartment, where I sat on the steps, breathing heavily and waiting for Sherlock and Watson to catch up.

At first both of them were leaning over and panting, but it only took one glance at me for Sherlock to straighten up.

"John, do have a look at Miss Claxton." Sherlock said, sounding worried, "It seems that she's been hurt badly."

"It's nothing." I grumbled. Then, I decided that I'd had enough of being called that. "And do call me Grace from now on, it would make me more comfortable."

As Watson begain inspecting my head, Sherlock nodded. "Alright. And you may call me Sherlock, if you wish to." he smiled a bit, but only for a second, his face falling as I grimaced in pain.

"Let's get her inside." Sherlock said, "You can tend to her better, and we can discuss our next move."

Both men helped me into the parlor, and Watson went upstairs for an old medical kit of his. There was an uncomfortable silence as I removed my coat and sat in a chair. Sherlock glanced at me, that unknown emotion and expression crossing his features again.

Watson came down, and as he cleaned my forehead, Sherlock spoke.

"It seems that they are still unaware that we were there during their planning. So I believe that it's safe to assume they will carry the plan out. They plan on taking Miss Cla- Grace, and getting the key from her. But even she doens't know what it is, and her capture could have dire consequenses."

"Actually," I said, wincing from the antiseptic, "I've given thought to this. If it's a replacement code, the key is only one or two words, right?"

"Under most circumstances, yes." Sherlock said, "And?"

"Well, there are two words that never leave me, because they're on a ring my father gave me." I said, holding up my right hand. "Engraved on the inside are the words, 'My Angel'. My father knew that I never take this ring off."

"Grace," Sherlock said, smiling, "I do believe that we have our key." 


	5. You're Not Coming With

"Now that we know what we're protecting, it will be easier to protect it." Sherlock said, looking at me with a strange expression. After a pause, he continued, "You'll stay here tonight, Grace, where it's safe. Watson and I will lay in wait for your would-be kidnappers."

I began to get deeply irritated. "Why can I not come with you?" I said, my voice quickly becoming angry, my tone heated. "I am more than capable of taking care of myself."

"But you didn't today." Sherlock said calmly, "And the worry about your presense, and thus your welfare, would distract me. And Watson as well." he quickly added, seeming to catch a fault in his speech.

"But do I really have to stay here?" I groaned. "When will you be coming back?"

"Tomorrow morning, unless we catch the assailants sooner." Sherlock answered, "We'll have the Yard with us as well."

I sighed, glancing at a shadow moving in the window. "Alright. I'll stay here willingly. But if anything happens to either of you," I said, looking and directing my statement at Sherlock, "I'll feel terribly guilty. So you had better not get hurt."

"I'll try my best, shall I?" Sherlok said, a bit of an impish grin spreading across his face. "I'll make sure Watson behaves himself."

"Let's see if Mrs. Hudson has supper ready, and after our meal, we can part ways for the evening." Watson said, rising from his seat to find Mrs. Hudson.

When she had been found and supper was prepared, we sat at the dining table to eat our meal. We ate in silence, with me trying to figure out a way to convince Sherlock to let me come along, and with Sherlock and Watson no doubt makng mental plans for what they would be doing that evening.

When the meal ended, both Sherlock and Watson grabbed their coats, and departed in a cab to my estate. I sat on a sofa in the parlor, and rested. I fingered my ring as I slowly fell into a light sleep.

I was startled awake by a hand covering my mouth. Assuming that it was Sherlock trying to be funny, I playfully swatted the hand away. "So I take it the Yard has three more occupants?" I said, trying to squint so I could see in the now dark room.

"Not quite." a voice that most definately did not belong to Sherlock answered, placing their hand over my mouth once more and dragging me out of the room. I struggled and squirmed, trying to escape from the iron grip that held me captive. But I was no match for the man that held me.

I was dragged into a cab, my hands were bound and my mouth gagged. I shivered with cold, the air was close to freezing and I didn't have my coat. My thin white shirt and my vest were not enough to keep me warm in conditions such as this.

They shoved me into a cab, and we started rolling away. But despite the very real danger that I was in, my thoughts went directly to Sherlock. If Maloney knew that I was at Sherlock's apartment, then he most likely knew what Sherlock and the Doctor were doing and where they were. Had he let them be or had he sent men to kill them? Such thoughts raced in and tortured my mind.

After a short while in the cab they blindfolded me, and I could use my eyes no more. But this just set my mind working faster. I could smell must and damp now, so I was close to water of some kind. The street around us sounded empty, so maybe an industrial area. But in my state of mind I couldn't bring myself to deduce any further. Little things that I knew could be the key to where I was were impossible to focus on, and I had a hard time not completely going mad with worry. But not over myself, as much. I had a feeling that Sherlock, and Dr. Watson, were in just as much danger as I was right now. And my heart was sinking with the thought of it.

The carriage stopped, and I was roughly led out, still blind to my surroundings, and beginning to freeze out in the open air. I was dragged into what i would assume was a warehouse, my footsteps echoing in some large empty space.

I was shoved into a chair, my gag and blindfold removed. In front of me was a small table with a single lit candle, casting an eerie light on Officer Maloney, who stood across the table from me.

"You're a smart girl, Grace." Maloney said, a less-than-favorable smile on his face. "You know why you're here. What's the key? Because if you don't tell me, well, searching you for it will be the least of your worries."

I could feel the color drain from my face, but tried to remain brave. "You'll never figure it out, Maloney. You never were the most brilliant officer I'd ever seen." I snapped, "And you can't scare me, because I'm sure that Holmes and the whole of Scotland Yard will be on you faster than you can think."

"Your precious dectective may catch me, but I doubt it." Maloney said, looking at my clenched hands in my lap. "After all, I've got men at your estate to kill him and the Doctor right now. But who's to say you'll live to see justice served for your father? You may be pretty, but that's no reason to belive I'll spare you."

Maloney came closer to me, and whispered in my ear, "Just like you couldn't save your father, your sweetheart detective won't be able to save you." he chuckled, backing away, and then took my ring from my finger. "You should really never play cards, Grace, you do have quite a bad poker face." he nodded, smiling, and I was snatched from my chair, and carried away from the candle's light.

I was drug across a small distance, and I could hear a large door being slowly opened. The already cold air around me instantly dropped at least thirty degrees. This didn't look good.

I stood there for an agonizing thirty seconds as the door groaned open.

When it halted, I was shoved into the coldest room I had ever encountered, and I heard the door shut and lock behind me. Maloney had found a good use for his meat freezer. 


	6. The Longest Hour (Saving Grace)

It was black as pitch in the room, and I could feel my body temperature falling. My legs weren't bound, so I could walk around, but I ran into several crates trying. I felt that it was slightly warmer by the door, so I stood there moving around as best I could. But I still wasn't warm enough.

I became so cold that I couldn't move my legs. I sat down next to the door, breathing into my hands and trying to keep them warm. This was going to be the death of me, I finally realized.

Again Sherlock was brought to my mind. It seemed so unlogical at first. I barely even knew the man, and yet my final concious thoughts directed my mind to him. The little things, like his unkempt hair, his mismatched clothing, and his gorgeous brown eyes.

"Wait, did I just think about his eyes, being, 'gorgeous'?" I wispered shakily to myself, wondering at the words that my mind was conjuring up. I had never felt this way before. But how was it that I felt?

Earlier, when we had been walking to the meeting of our suspects, I had almost called myself infatuated. Was that really the case? And if it was, was it really appropriate for someone that I had just met?

I shivered, beginning to imagine Sherlock's voice in my head. I found this feeling in the pit of my stomach, tugging at me. I didn't understand it, but I missed him immensely. Even with the probability of me dying, I just wanted to see him again.

Even with the intense thinking and trying to keep warm, I could tell I was slowly dying. I could move less and less, and my thoughts became clouded. I shivered uncontrollably.

I curled myself into a ticht ball, trying to preserve what warmth I had left. I thought I was becoming delusional again when I heard scuffling outside of the door, and the door being opened. But I wasn't. Someone new was thrown inside, and they hissed in pain as they hit the ground.

The following breathy whisper set my heart alive again. "Grace?" Sherlock said softly, "Where are you? Are you still here?" his tone turning sad at the last sentince.

"I'm..o..over..here." I said, my shivering and teeth chattering interrupting my speech.

I felt a warm hand reach out and touch my shoulder, and come up to my face, rubbing my cold cheek gently. He mumbled something too quiet for me to hear as he sat down next to me, and then said, "It's a wonder you're still alive," he whispered in what I assumed was relief, holding my wrist to check my pulse. "You've been in here for at least an hour."

"Well.." I chattered, "It was the..the longest hour I've ever lived." I rubbed my hands together, breathing on them.

I felt something warm wrapped around me, a coat. "I'm sorry, so very sorry." Sherlock said, pain filling his voice, "I failed to realize that by 'splitting up' they planned to cover your estate, Watson's home, and my own. We waited for hours, only to find one man. He reluctantly told us all that was happening, with some help from Watson's blade. It was then I knew that I couldn't wait for the Yard to gather themselves, I had to run and find you immediately."

"I appreciate that effort more than you could ever imagine." I said, warmer now, and happy that my final wish had been granted. I had been able to talk to him again. "But what good is it if you are locked in here just as I am?"

"Watson and the Yard are on their way." he whispered in my ear, his warm breath tickling me. "We'll soon be safe. Are you feeling warmer?" he asked, from what I could feel turning to face me.

"A little." I replied, "But aren't you cold?"

"A small bit," he said, "But you've been exposed to this longer and need to stay warm."

"Let me get closer so we can both be warmer." I offered, scooting closer to him. I expected him to be stiff and uncomfortable as I felt about doing it, but instead he lifted me into his lap and wrapped his arms around me. Not only did this surprise me, it set my heart beating quickly in my chest.

"Better?" he asked quietly, "Are you warmer?"

"Quite." I said, "Thank you, I know this must be rather uncomfortable for you right now."

"Not quite." he murmered in a voice I don't think he meant for me to hear. Then, louder, "It's not a problem at all."

Suddenly, I heard another scuffling outside, and my heart leapt as I heard Watson's blade drawn. We were close to freedom. Sherlock lifted me from his lap and then stood, helping me up as well. But my legs were still too cold to support me, and I almost fell.

Holding me up, Sherlock pounded on the door, trying to get attention. "Any time, old boy. It's only ten below in here." he shouted at the door. Soon enough the large door began to open, Watson and Inspector Lestrade standing on the other side.

"Do take a look at Grace, Watson." Sherlock said, "And make sure she isn't frostbitten."

Watson helped me to sit down, and looked at my eyes, hands, and ears. I glanced at Sherlock, who's lips were blue, and skin was pale from cold. A red line spread across the right side of his face, a cut that looked fresh.

If I was anything like him, and I was sure that I was just as bad, if not worse, I was sure that I wouldn't be allowed out for some time.

But I was wrong. Instead, Watson simply suggested warm clothes until I could get home and take a warm bath. I offered Sherlock his coat back, but he refused it, instead wrapping it tighter around me with a smile, his deep brown eyes swimming with some unknown feeling.

Lestrade came up, explaining to us that Maloney, Powell, and two other accomplices had been apprehended, and that the trial for my father's murder would be in around a week. As Lestrade and the Yard left the building, Sherlock's small smile grew wider.

"Case solved, but not yet closed." Sherlock beamed, "Now to solve the real mystery now at hand. Where and what is the fortune?" Sherlock turned to Watson. "Watson, the papers, and Grace's ring."

Watson took them out of his inside coat pocket, and handed them to the detective. Sherlock took the ring first, and returned it to my finger. "And now for the decoding." Sherlock said. "But let us do this on our way to your estate, Grace."

When we left the building and called for a cab, I could see my breath in the cold morning air. Once we were all seated in the carriage, Sherlock unfolded the deed and opened the bank book.

"If you'll look closely," Sherlock started pointing to the deed, "There are small letters written under the signature line in pencil. They read an unsensical 'Vingq ubg ecqg cj sbg' right now, but if we substitute the letters in 'my angel' for the letters in the alphabet according to the substitution code, it clearly says 'Under the fire in the'."

"In the where?" I asked, "There must be more!"

"Indeed, that is where the bank book comes in." Sherlock said, "Inscribed on the leather binding in gold, are the letters 'hcyqmqx'. Translated easily to-" here Sherlock paused, his eyes showing concentration, "Easily says, 'Library'."

"Under the fireplace in the library?" I asked, surprized, "The only time he could have done that is when we renovated the library after mother's death."

"Then I suppose it has been there for some time." Sherlock said, folding the deed up once more and setting it inside the bank book. "But it won't be hidden for much longer."

When the cab stopped outside of my home, it was already much lighter outside than it had been before our journey. I led Sherlock and Watson to the library in the house, and they found the fireplace. Now for the moment of truth. What lays under the fire?  



	7. A Messy but Joyful Morning

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Hey guys! Sorry that it has taken me so long to get my notebook found and type this last chapter! As a peace offering, please, accept a cookie! (::)  
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Sherlock stood in front of the fireplace, just staring at it, with his hand on his chin. After about five minutes of intense concentration, he stepped up to the fireplace, and stretched his arm up the chimmney, pulling on something.

He opened the flu, and soot and ashes poured from the chimney, causing a slight cloud. "Give us a hand, old boy?" Sherlock asked Watson, who had apparently just noticed something.

"That's MY waistcoat!" John exlaimed, "And you're getting it full of soot!"

"Nevermind that, Watson." Holmes countered, "Help me to pull this strange lever."

Watson looked up at it. "But it's missing a bearing. There's no turning the lever without that bearing."

"Let me take a look." I said, bending and trying to look at the missing bearing that Watson had described.

As I saw it, I noticed that the missing piece could be no bigger around than my finger. I stepped back, thinking for a moment. What had happened? Had it broken off and burned in the fireplace? Was the missing piece hidden somewhere else? I glanced at Sherlock to see if he had any more of a clue than I did. But no dice. He was mumbling to himself, pacing around the room in a ring.

Ring. MY ring.

I took my ring off as Sherlock continued to pace the floor, Watson standing off to the side with a bemused expression on his face. I slid my ring into the bearing hole. The ring fit perfectly. I reached up, pulling the lever with ease.

A seam in the granite bace of the fireplace appeared, with enough room to lift it up. Sherlock finally appeared to have noticed that I had solved the puzzle, and helped me lift the thin granite floor tile.

John and Sherlock hauled up a cedar chest, the lock rusting off of the box. We succeeded in kicking that off of the chest, and paused.

"The moment of truth." I said, pushing up the sleeves of Sherlock's coat, and slowly lifting up the lid.

I gasped slightly as I saw the contents of the chest. Inside was my mother's jewelery box, along with my mother's wedding dress. All of my mother's jewelery lay in the box, and as I took out the dress, I saw several thousand pound's worth of notes lining the bottom of the chest.

I was nearly crying as I stood, setting the dress on the chest. A broad smile broke across my face, and I laughed for the first time in days, though it seemed like years.

"Are you happy, Grace?" Sherlock said, smiling as he wiped his face as clean as he could from all the soot and ash.

"Happy?" I said, "I'm so happy, I , I could kiss you!" I said, the high emotional charge causing me to loose my inhibition. But I quickly caught myself, stammering out, "Oh, um, what I meant to say was-" but I never finished that sentince.

Sherlock had taken me in his arms and kissed me, effectively shutting my running mouth. I wrapped my arms around his neck, enjoying what I had secretly desired.

Only when we broke apart, did John say anything to us on the subject. "Well, it's about time, Holmes." he chuckled, and Sherlock brushed him of nonchalantly.

"And you ARE giving me back my waistcoat." Watson added, "Clean and pressed."

"At my nearest convienience, Watson." Sherlock said, smiling. "Not saying when that may be."

"Well then, Grace," Sherlock said, turning to me. "Case closed."

That day was one of the most splendid days I have ever experienced in my life. I spent the day staying warm and going through my mother's old jewelery, thinking of what I would wear tomorrow to dinner with Sherlock.

The trial came next week, and Maloney and his accomplices were put away forever, and my father's murder finally avenged in my eyes.

The months rolled on by, and then came the favorite day of my life. Eight months after we had first met, Sherlock and I were married. I wore my mother's dress, the pearls embroidered into the silk of the dress shining in every light.

And here ends my little story. I still worry about him sometimes, but I know Sherlock will always come back to me and our little baby boy.

My name is Grace Irena Holmes. And this is but the first adventure of my life. 


End file.
